


Moriarty is Dead

by TheRedJay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sheriarty - Freeform, Tragedy, jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 09:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10806567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedJay/pseuds/TheRedJay
Summary: An alternative ending, whereby Moriarty is unfortunately stabbed in an empty warehouse.I tried to make it sad, so it might be?





	Moriarty is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Did watching Sherlock not destroy you enough? Well, you're in luck, buddy!
> 
> This is probably based... After S2E2 but before S2E3? I really don't have clue. I'm sure you can figure it out somehow - you seem smart. 
> 
> While you're here, leave a kudos and comment? :)

Sherlock pushed back the metal door, the scraping sound echoing in the abandoned warehouse.

Earlier that day, Mycroft had called him.  
A small town police department had phoned some higher ups, who had phoned their higher ups, who'd phoned him. Mycroft hadn't explained what'd happened, but whatever had, had resulted in someone being stabbed, likely mortally. The reason Sherlock had been asked to investigate - was that the someone was rumoured to be Jim Moriarty.

Somehow that seemed unlikely. A master criminal without his bodyguards or at least some other company in an old country warehouse in a situation which would risk him being stabbed... It didn't float well with Sherlock.  
Still, he'd been working a case relatively nearby and couldn't see any harm in taking a look.

The sound of his steps bounced off of every surface; the wet stone making an almost clapping sound each time.  
He looked between the ageing metal pieces of equipment. He listened to sounds of dripping water, swinging chains, his own steps and... soft, uneven, rugged breathing.  
Following the sound, he headed for the far right side of the warehouse: making his way between the maze of abandoned works.

It was him.

Moriarty was sat on the floor, leaning against a machine, his hand over the red stain that'd spread on his shirt.

"Hello, Sherlock," He greeted, "Have you come to see what it's like to die?"

"You're not going to die," Sherlock replied, approaching him.

"I am going to die," Moriarty argued. Sherlock knelt beside him.

"It almost sounds like you want to die," Sherlock muttered. The stab wound was in the abdomen, and there was a _lot_ of blood.

"Strange concept that..." Moriarty sighed. There was no way of telling if any organs had been ruptured without actually looking at the wound itself. However, the stomach was likely okay, since Moriarty didn't appear to be coughing up any blood.

Sherlock took out his phone and called Mycroft.  
"Is it him?" His brother immediately asked.

"Yes. Can you get a helicopter here?" Sherlock answered.

"If it's him, there'll be no need for that," Mycroft remarked. Sherlock paused. He hadn't expected Mycroft to give up Moriarty's life that easily. Previously, he'd made out that Moriarty was very useful to him, especially in concern to holding information.

Moriarty had clearly heard what Mycroft had said, and was pulling a face which depicted false shock.

"Mycroft, you-"

"Sherlock, you must understand: in the past, he's been very uncooperative. I reckon we have better chance getting what we want from his contacts once he's deceased than we do with him whilst he's alive," Mycroft explained. Moriarty nodded in agreement - his face depicting that he thought Mycroft's point fair.

"Send a helicopter," Sherlock ordered, ignoring what his ignorant brother had said.

"I'll think about it." Mycroft hung up. Sherlock took that as a likely no.  
He took a deep breath, thinking what to do. He couldn't just leave Moriarty to die, but he couldn't help him on his own.

Sherlock reached forward, and gently removed Moriarty's hand from covering the wound. There was a lot of blood.  
He returned his hand to where it'd been.

"Keep pressure on it," He mumbled in instruction, looking around for anything that'd help. There seemed to only be old machine parts... "Was the blade clean?" He asked.

Moriarty gave him an extremely flat look in response.  
"Oh yeah, they wiped it down with an anti-bac wipe before stabbing me with it," He replied sarcastically.

"That was an unnecessary use of sarcasm," Sherlock stated. He took a seat beside Moriarty, deciding the only realistic hope was that Mycroft _might_ send a helicopter.

"You don't have to stick around if you don't want to," Moriarty offered, glancing at Sherlock.

"I have nothing better to do," He replied. Some lady's husband going missing could wait. Especially when one of the greatest minds Sherlock had ever come across was possibly going to die.

"Thank you," Moriarty murmured, the traces of a smile appearing on his lips.

"Really, I'm only putting off a runaway husband," Sherlock insisted. Moriarty let out a gentle laugh - which probably hurt tremendously. "So, what's it like? Dying..."

"Slow. Painful. Strangely cold. Nothing you wouldn't expect," Moriarty answered.

"You're admirably calm about the whole situation," Sherlock stated, looking over Moriarty. He had none of the usual emotional symptoms - crying, shaking, making useless efforts to survive... He was simply sat, holding the wound, discussing his impending death with the man he'd tried to kill more than once.

"It's inevitable, Sherlock. We all die," He replied. "Just some surprisingly sooner than others..."

"This isn't how you planned to go then...?" Sherlock questioned. It was more so an encouragement for Moriarty to voice how he had planned to go, rather than whether or not he'd seen that he'd die from a stab wound in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere.

"Nope. I'd kind of hoped to do it myself, actually," Moriarty replied.

"How?" Sherlock was actually very curious as to how Moriarty had wanted to die. He'd never given his own death much thought, but Moriarty definitely seemed the type to.

Moriarty mimicked shooting himself in the head through his mouth, then pretended to be dead.  
"At least that way it'd be quick..." He muttered, straightening up again. Sherlock nodded. It would be a lot quicker, and a lot less painful - but unlike a stab wound, it was a guaranteed way to go.

"I feel obliged to ask if you have a dying wish," Sherlock stated, glancing at Moriarty.  It seemed the thing to be done, after all.  
Moriarty seemed to think for a moment; he furrowed his brow and lowered his head a little.

"Can I wear your coat?" He asked with a teasing a smile.

"No." Sherlock answered bluntly. He didn't want Moriarty to die in his coat: or to bleed on it either.

"That's fair," Moriarty shrugged. "I'd probably get blood on it anyways."

"Oh, alright..." Sherlock began to pull off his coat. A sudden pang of guilt had changed his mind. If Moriarty was going to die, the least Sherlock could do was pay for dry cleaning.

Moriarty's face lit up as Sherlock wrapped the coat around him, helping each of his arms into the sleeves. He turned up the collar for him also.

Moriarty gently gasped, looking around as if he'd been given a new viewpoint.  
"I feel more egotistical already..." He mumbled in fake wonder.

"Oh shut up!" Sherlock scowled, folding his arms.

"You can have it back when I'm dead," Moriarty stated, shrinking down a little into the material. He looked quite small in Sherlocks coat, since it was much too big for him.

"Now all you need is that silly hat and we'd be identical," Sherlock teased, sitting back against the machine. Moriarty sucked in the inside of cheeks.  
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked. In reply, Moriarty pointed to his cheekbones - making it clear that he was attempting to mimic Sherlock's facial structure. Sherlock couldn't help but laugh a little.

"Do you think I would've beaten you?" Moriarty asked. Sherlock thought a moment.

"Yes. I do," He answered.

"Why?" Moriarty questioned.

"I care to much to beat you. It's my weakness, and you know that," Sherlock replied. "You'd use that."

"Good... You're good..." Moriarty stated, nodding slowly as he did.

"I suppose your weakness is getting stabbed in old warehouses..." Sherlock mumbled, smirking.

"I'll haunt you," Moriarty warned.

"Feel free: I'll miss you if you don't," Sherlock replied.

"You can have my skull, if you want; replace that fake one," Moriarty offered. Sherlock furrowed his brow, unsure on how Moriarty knew about-  
"I've broken in a few times," Moriarty stated, answering the question on Sherlocks mind.

"I thought you might have..." Sherlock had noticed a few things had been out of place on a couple of occasions. The most noticeable time was when he'd come home to an unmade bed, after he'd sworn that he'd made it before he had left.

Moriarty let out a breathy laugh. He was in an increasing amount of pain, Sherlock could tell.  
The emotional symptoms were beginning to show: his breaths were getting a little faster and heavier, and he was beginning to tremble.

Sherlock took a hold of Moriarty's spare hand.  
Moriarty looked up with a faint smile.  
Both of them knew how unlikely Moriarty's survival was...

In the final moments, Sherlock hadn't a clue of what to do. Their game had been bought to a sudden and abrupt end. Everything that may have or could have happened was fading. They were moribund.

Mycroft declining the helicopter had been a sign of hate. So what had Sherlock staying been a sign of?   
Mutual respect?  
There he was, sat beside a dying man. A dying man, whom an hour before, Sherlock would have referred to as his enemy. Yet, in that moment, where he was holding his cold hand, looking into his sad eyes, fearful he'd die - he wasn't sure.

He moved forward a little, wary of his actions.  
Moriarty gave his hand a small tug, looking down at Sherlock's lips, encouraging him. Moving his hand so that their fingers were intertwined, Sherlock closed the gap between them. He wrapped his arm around Moriarty's waist. It was rare that he touched something so gently as he was Moriarty's lips as he kissed him softly.  
They were scared. Scared to hurt one another; scared to lose one another.

Moriarty's hand began to loosen, and he became more reliant for support against Sherlock's arm.  
They parted in time for his eyes to flutter shut and for him to fall against Sherlock's chest. A rising feeling of dread ushered Sherlock to check his pulse. There was a faint, steady beat in his neck.  
He wasn't dead, but he would be soon...

Sherlock pulled him closer, using one hand to apply pressure to the wound, since Moriarty was too weak to, and using the other to stroke his hair in comfort.  
"You're going to be okay..." Sherlock mumbled. He was _praying_ that Mycroft had had a fraction of a heart...

"Th-thank you, Sh-Sherlock..." Moriarty whispered. He was shaking like a leaf, and his voice was soft and broken.  
Sherlock had no words. What could he possibly say? What was Moriarty even thanking him for?  
If he was thanking him for staying, then Sherlock had already explained how little trouble it was. If he was thanking him for being his opponent, then it hadn't been a satisfactory end for either of them. If he was thanking him for kissing him, well...

"I," Sherlock swallowed hard, "I'm sorry it ended like this."

Moriarty didn't reply, and had gone worryingly still.

"Jim?" Sherlock asked, trying to look at his face. He checked his pulse again: it was hardly there - if it was even there at all. Shutting his eyes tightly, Sherlock looked up at the sky, taking deep breaths.

There was no hope.

Even if a helicopter was coming, it wouldn't arrive in time. Moriarty was fading; soon he'd be gone.

Suddenly aware of the stinging in his eyes, Sherlock blinked away the tears that were teasing to fall. He held Moriarty a little tighter, his body cold and rigid.

So that was how it was to end...  
The two of them together; an abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere; a farewell kiss between enemies.

It was unsatisfactory. It was like some poorly-written cliffhanger. It wasn't bloody well fair.  
Sherlock, selfish as it sounded, would be left unchallenged. He'd be left alone. Moriarty had an easy way out.  He didn't need to live and continue with an absent place for a player in the game. The great game.  
Nevertheless, there was no way he could stay. There was no way he had stayed. He was gone.  
He was gone.  
He was gone.  
He was gone.  
He was gone.  
Sherlock told himself for weeks afterward... He was gone, Sherlock watched him go, felt him die in his arms. Despite this, he'd turn every corner expecting to see him. He wanted to see him, desperately. For weeks. Months.  
There was nothing he could do.  
He was helpless.

Moriarty is dead...


End file.
